


Sweat and Absolution

by youwillbefirstagainstthewall (orphan_account)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 2014, 2014!Castiel, End!verse, Episode: s05e04 The End, Italics for no reason, M/M, Porn, Stream of consciousness but not really, Vitriolic Lovers, stupid
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-23
Updated: 2012-01-23
Packaged: 2017-10-30 00:33:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/325817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/youwillbefirstagainstthewall
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Future!Cas/Dean. Written at one a.m in under twenty minutes, which still doesn't excuse this travesty of a first submission.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sweat and Absolution

You trace your fingers over his shoulder, and feel a pull of Grace in your fingers. Back when you made him anew, Dean used to spark with it, especially around your red handprint. Now there are only fleeting remnants, chased away by your thin fingers and practiced tongue.

You find not salvation on his skin or in his mouth, merely the occasional hitch of breath, salt and saliva, musky sweat that reminds you of something you’d done your best to forget. When you’d looked on Dean as an object of idolatry, a substitute for Him, though he is nearly as far from your Father as Lucifer is. When you’d loved him, though the ways in which you did were perhaps not befitting of an angel and his charge, unmentioned touches in the oppressing, protecting dark.

This Dean comes from before those stolen moments of base sin, but he whispers to you _Cas Cas Cas, wanted you forever_ , and your lip twitches at his concept of ‘forever’. You used to forget that the Righteous Man is just that, a man, who’s lived nothing but a blink of an eyelid, in comparison to you.

You’d never forget that now, not for however long this vessel will keep you alive.

You slip a finger into him, twist and wriggle it persistently, and Dean always did fuck as quietly as he could, so desperate to save as much face as humanly possible. You touch a spot that makes him gasp and you count it as a small victory, even with the whispered _hurry up you bastard, I’m not waiting much longer_. “Patience,” you reply, and you’re two fingers in now, turning and scissoring the mostly dry heat, so unlike the girls you preoccupy yourself with now.

You don’t spend much time with the third finger, because _stop fucking around_ is as good of a go sign as any. You slather your cock in your own spit (you laugh to think there was once a time when you thought intercourse and anything of the like disgusting, it‘s the only thing you live for now) and press into him, and he is tight and radiant, head thrown back against a rotting wooden desk and mouth caught open in a wordless plea, grime and perspiration on his brow.

Were Dean a god, he would be no Christian one, perhaps a pagan one, or at a stretch one of Ancient Greece’s flock.

This Dean could be a patron of Satanists, and you would still love him. You’re nearly as pathetic as he.


End file.
